One of the Unpredictable Factors in this politically volatile year is the "new" blue-collar worker: the long-haired, alienated young hard-hat or factory man, who turns out to be not so unlike his contemporaries on campus or in the communes. Much "hysterical nonsense" has appeared in the media about this new character in the great American drama, according to Playboy Staff Writer Geoffrey Norman--who, in Blue-Collar Saboteurs, reconstructs the events leading to the strike, last March, by employees of the Chevrolet Vega plant in Lordstown, Ohio. Norman checked out the operation of the assembly line--manned, to his surprise, by "real freaks"; to get the other side of the story, he also talked to foremen and management people, and he found that the dissident workers aren't really political: "While they all hate G. M., they don't read Marx or Engels, and they're concerned with personal matters, not with overthrowing the system." The root of the problem, Norman feels, is that the men are "barely more than machines themselves. A guy might just make one weld, but he has to do it every 36 seconds, since they turn out 100 cars an hour, and he has to keep it up or the cars come off the line with defects. You can't use any intricate human skills in 36 seconds, so there's no incentive to make that weld with any degree of craftsmanship." The contraption that illustrates Norman's article--wood, with gadgets attached--is by Vin Guiliani.
Playboy, September, 1972, Volume 19, Number 9. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States, its possessions and Canada, $24 for three years, $18 for two years, $10 for one year. Elsewhere add $2 per year for foreign postage. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Marketing: Victor Lownes, Director of Creative Development; Nelson Futch, Marketing Manager; Michael Rich, Promotion Director; Lee Gottlieb, Director of Public Relations. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer. Advertising Director: Jules Kase, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers, 405 Park Avenue, New York, New York 10022; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611; Detroit, William F. Moore, Manager, 818 Fisher Building; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Blvd.; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter St.; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Road, N.E., Atlanta, Georgia 30305.
In June 1970, under the title Tailor-Made Turndowns, we published a series of tongue-in-cheek magazine rejection slips. Our premise was that these heartbreaking notices of would-be writers' failures, instead of being bureaucratically toneless, could be stylishly suited to the publications sending them out--if only they were invested with a little dash, a little strut and a little feeling. Now truth has caught up with our fantasies. An old friend of ours--a gagwriter who occasionally dabbles in pornography--received the following rejection letter from a firm called Captain Publications:
"Italia! O Italia!" rhapsodized Byron 154 years ago. "Thou who hast / The fatal gift of beauty." The gift is proving fatal in more ways than one. If we can credit the testimony of Italia Nostra, a kind of Mediterranean Sierra Club, the Italian peninsula has turned into a major ecological disaster area. Etruscan treasures are disappearing beneath skyscrapers; olive groves are giving way to ugly subdivisions; once-pristine villages are choking in automobile-exhaust fumes; and Venice--Byron's queen city "throned on her hundred isles"--is sinking at the rate of five inches every century. Clearly, something ought to be done. What Italia Nostra has done, for openers, is to promote a stunning exhibition of photographs documenting the downhill slide. The show--called Art and Landscape of Italy, Too Late to Be Saved?--opened last May in New York amid kudos from art critics and ecologists alike. It will tour museums in the United States, Canada and Europe during the next two years, beginning in Pittsburgh on October 15. Giorgio Bassani, president of Italia Nostra and author of the novel The Garden of the Finzi-Continis, says the exhibition is meant to undermine the "falsely progressive ideology of consumerism." Certainly, it is an indictment of man's apparent indifference to all that does not glitter and is not gold. In a section titled "Urban Landscape," we glimpse familiar depredations: a polluted stream, denuded forests, traffic jams. What gives these melancholy scenes special force is the beautiful Italian backdrop against which they are ironically projected. A new high-rise eclipses an ancient church; a superhighway bisects a medieval village. If the show has a weakness, it is in the accompanying captions, which seem to have been written by jargon-prone planners who sermonize on "the larger operational context" and lament the agrarian trend toward "the superimposition of different cultivations." Such explanations do nothing to sharpen the viewer's understanding of Italy's dilemma, which is the same that confronts most of the nations on earth: the aesthetic decline begotten by rapid industrial growth. "Fortunately," Mussolini once rejoiced, "the Italian people is not yet accustomed to eating several times per day." Now the Italians are eating well, at peril to their art and landscape.
Previews: "Big" books for the approaching fall season come, as usual, in two models--those that promise to excite the interest of critics and those that promise to cheer the lives of accountants. In the former category is John Barth's first book since Giles Goat-Boy, which appeared in 1966. Titled Chimera, it is based on the myths of Scheherazade, Perseus and Bellerophon. In the second category is The Stepford Wives, a new chiller by Ira Levin, author of the cash-register-ringing Rosemary's Baby. The victims this time around are women, the witchlike villains are their hubbies. Two contenders for the best of both worlds--the critical and the salable--present themselves in the forms of August 1914, Nobel laureate Alexander Solzhenitsyn's big novel of Russia in peace and war, and Russian expatriate Vladimir Nabokov's novella Transparent Things, which is billed as being both humorous and terrifying, a combination well within the compass of versatile Vladimir. Over in the nonfiction camp, Vance Packard rides again this fall with A Nation of Strangers. This time the indefatigable researcher, who has six smash hits to his record, including The Hidden Persuaders and The Sexual Wilderness, focuses on the anonymity and rootlessness in American society, and what it means in terms of crime, confusion and general disarray. It also means big sales for Vance Packard. And on the subject of big sales, Philip Roth's new novel, The Breast, has to do with a man who turns into one.
In southern Louisiana, a Creole is a descendant of French and/or Spanish settlers, and Creole cooking is influenced largely by those two tastes--with an occasional tang of Indian, African, Haitian, Italian, West Indian, German, Mexican or Cuban origin thrown in. It is nowhere represented better than at New Orleans' Galatoire's (209 Bourbon Street, in the French Quarter), a restaurant that has been serving food since 1905 and where, except for one or two luxe ingredients (e.g., truffles) that have gone the way of all costs, prices are pretty much what they were way back when. Galatoire's is famous for sticking to its old rules and for making no exceptions. One rule is that no reservations are taken. Local legend has it that Churchill, Eisenhower and Garbo have all stood in line on the street. Once through the door, you'll find yourself confronted by a starkly plain room without a frill or a carpet in sight. Tourists who go there for atmosphere are often disappointed. Great old New Orleans restaurants, of which Galatoire's is probably the best remaining, do not cater to middle-class taste. The floor is tiled, the walls are minor-lined, with large coat hooks all around, and there are 22 two-vane wooden ceiling fans with unshaded light bulbs set into them. Overall, the room has a nonchalant look that falls somewhere between a well-run barbershop and the men's room at the Waldorf. You go to Galatoire's for one reason alone--good food. A first course of Shrimp Remoulade ($2) combines olive oil, paprika, horseradish, Creole mustard, garlic, Tabasco, green onions, parsley and celery in a terra-cotta-colored sauce that tingles like sin. The Oysters à la Rockefeller ($2 for a half dozen) are good, too. They are topped with the traditional spinach sauce, baked and served on a bed of blistering-hot rock salt to keep them warm. Occasionally, a visitor has been known to sample the rock salt. Don't. If you're really hungry, Turtle Soup ($1.25) makes a good second course; but remember that spicy Creole turtle soup, unlike the thin French variety, is as thick and as dark as Mississippi mud. For an entree, try the Trout Marguery ($3.50), which has fresh local shrimps in sauce; or Chicken Clemenceau ($4), a tinge of garlic wafting up from under chicken with mushrooms, green peas and parsley; or the delicious plain Broiled Sweetbreads ($3). Galatoire's hollandaise sauce has a fresh sunny taste that is good with broccoli, artichokes or asparagus, if you happen to want an extra vegetable. For dessert, the Crepes Maison ($1) are above average; the Crepes Suzette ($1.75) are marvelous. But if you've eaten your fill, our advice is to skip dessert and have, instead, Café BrÛlot (minimum two orders, $1.50 per), a Creole brandied coffee with lemon and orange peel, cloves and cinnamon. The waiter mixes and flames it at your table. There is a deep burning aftertaste to Café BrÛlot that leaves a hot glow in the throat, in the mind and in the heart. Galatoire's is open from 11:30 A.M. for lunch (from noon on Sundays), and if the line outside gets too long at night, no more customers are allowed to join it after 8:30 P.M. The line usually does get too long. Galatoire's is closed on Mondays. No credit cards are accepted--ever.
Previews: Following the current Butterflies Are Free, A Day in the Death of Joe Egg, Last of the Red Hot Lovers and Woody Allen's Play It Again, Sam, many another Broadway hit will be splashed onto movie screens in the months ahead. Autumn will bring Robert Preston and James Mason in Sidney Lumet's version of Child's Play. The prize-winning musical 1776, with most of its original cast intact, is expected to premiere as Radio City Music Hall's all-American holiday attraction for Thanksgiving, followed by the Christmas release of director Arthur (Love Story) Hiller's sumptuous Man of La Mancha, starring Peter O'Toole, Sophia Loren and James Coco. Meanwhile, among the bright but still-embryonic future prospects are director Norman (Fiddler on the Roof) Jewison's film of Jesus Christ--Superstar; a flick from Neil Simon's latest coup, The Prisoner of Second Avenue; producer Mike Frankovich's Forty Carats; and Elizabeth Taylor (directed by Brian Hutton, who helped her steal every scene of X, Y and Zee) in the thriller Night Watch. By summer's end, in England, producer Hal B. Wallis will have Glenda Jackson and Peter Finch (of Sunday Bloody Sunday) facing the cameras together again, as Lady Hamilton and Lord Nelson in A Bequest to the Nation, based on a Terence Rattigan play that never crossed the Atlantic. Then there are two award-winning best bets that should complete shooting about the same time: Joanne Woodward, directed by Paul Newman, in Paul Zindel's The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds; and Sir Laurence Olivier vis-à-vis Michael Caine in the seriocomic suspense thriller Sleuth, with director Joseph Mankiewicz holding the megaphone. Down the cynics who insist that good plays invariably make bad movies. Several of these packages sound as though they may contain some pleasant surprises.
Until last June, there was only one jazz museum in the whole country, and that one, in New Orleans, was limited to New Orleans jazz. Now there is a second--the enthusiastically ecumenical New York Jazz Museum, housed in a spacious converted carriage house, with 20-foot ceilings, on West 55th Street, near the City Center. This appropriately informal repository of our most influential authentic art form, as the State Department likes to say, has opened with a Louis Armstrong exhibit. The pleasure-spreading spirit of Louis pervades the room--through photographs, posters, paintings, sheet music, recordings and such essential memorabilia as Satchmo recipes for red beans and rice, those handkerchiefs that were like extensions of his horn and letters to and from the virtuosos of classic jazz.
The Rolling Stones are into a new thing: It's called music. Well, that's not quite fair, because they've always been more than competent, but Exile on Main St. (Rolling Stones Records) does tend to bury Mick Jagger's vocals in the band's sound and stress the group's eclectic musical abilities at the expense of words and messages. Which is too bad; we miss Jagger's mean, smartass trenchancy in most of these tunes. The zingers are on the jacket covers, in photos of assorted freaks, in penciled notes ("I gave you the diamonds, you give me disease") and in the montages of Mick and the band. In the process of exposing the black roots of the Stones' music (Gospel, blues and boogie), the album shows how well the Stones can play in a variety of styles. Shake Your Hips is a dark, heavy-sounding boogie with a fine ricky-tick riff; Gospel comes on strong in Just Wanna See His Face and Shine a Light; there are good vocal tracks, like Let It Loose with Clydie King, Vanetta Fields, Dr. John, et al.; and the straight-ahead rockers, such as Soul Survivor, were never better. But where are the Stones of yesteryear?
Previews: Arthur Miller, Neil Simon and Paul Zindel will all be back on Broadway this season and Edward Albee, Herb Gardner and Murray Schisgal have promises to keep. Miller's new play, "a catastrophic comedy," is about The Creation of the World and Other Business and stars God, the Devil, Eve and Adam, with Hal Holbrook as the Devil and those ex--Second City lights Barbara Harris and Bob Dishy as the Edenites. Another Second City favorite son, Alan Arkin, returns to Broadway, as director, with Simon's new comedy, The Sunshine Boys, the boys being two vaudevillians who come out of retirement. Zindel, too, dabbles in nostalgia with The Secret Affairs of Mildred Wild, in which Maureen Stapleton plays a movie-magazine buff.
The death in early June of Ken W. Purdy, at 59, deprived the editors of a colleague and a friend, and the magazine of its most prolific contributor (Far from the Madding Crowd, an article on off-road vehicles in our July issue, was his 73rd piece for Playboy). Ken was perhaps the finest automotive writer ever; his ongoing love affair with cars and motor sports endured through his years as editor of Parade, True and Argosy, his free-lance writing years and his 15-year association with this magazine. He was without peer in being able to capture the seductiveness, beauty and brutality of that most American of machines, as well as its designers, builders and particularly its drivers--his portraits of Stirling Moss and the Marquis de Portago are masterpieces of the genre. (Ken took, enormous, justifiable pride in the fact that his book Kings of the Road had been in print longer and had sold more copies than any other car book.)
On April 22, 1969, a young girl stood before the British House of Commons to deliver her first speech as a Member of Parliament. "I understand that by making my maiden speech on the day of my arrival, I am flouting the unwritten tradition of this House," Bernadette Devlin told the surprised M. P.s. "But the situation of my people, I think, merits flouting such a tradition." She then launched into a bitter but lyrical denunciation of British policy in Ireland, rarely referring to notes as she detailed a half century of oppression in her native Ulster. When she sat down after 22 minutes, the stunned silence in the House gave way to thunderous applause. "One after another," reported Newsweek, "M. P.s hailed her maiden speech as one of the best in the history of Commons." As the youngest female Member of Parliament in British history read the glowing accounts in the next morning's papers, she had a double reason for celebration: It was her 22nd birthday.
I guess by now there can't be too many people anywhere who haven't heard about Billy Clyde Puckett, the humminest sumbitch that ever carried a football. Maybe you could find some Communist Chinks someplace who don't know about me, but surely everybody in America does if they happen to keep up with pro football, which is what I think everybody in America does. That, and jack around with somebody else's wife or husband.
One mile or so west of exit 15 on the Ohio Turnpike sits the General Motors plant at Lordstown, off the road about 400 yards with no connecting access and in startling contrast to the weathered old farmhouse, the barn topped by antique lightning rods and the idly grazing horses across the way. The plant is huge, occupying some 1000 acres, and painted a dull and faded color between orange and rust. The parking lot is full of recent-model automobiles and motorcycles with a few intermittent campers rising above them. At the east end of the plant, there are two Softball fields and a gate where trailer trucks loaded with new Chevrolet Vegas leave to plow eventually onto the turnpike and run through the range of gears as they negotiate the Appalachian foothills on the Ohio-Pennsylvania border. Beyond the plant and across the highway, there is a small, modern building: a union headquarters called Reuther Hall. Altogether, it is a scene of humming industrial efficiency.
If you went to college in the Fifties or early Sixties--even if you attended a relatively hip institution such as Reed, Bennington or Black Mountain--chances were that you didn't see many naked people. You may, of course, have glimpsed a few if you studied art or medicine. Physical education may have shown you the forms taken by members of your own sex. On occasion, you may have induced a progressive (or bombed) coed into baring her all. If you were really far out, you may have found a secret sharer for your offcampus pad. But you and your fellow students never appeared nude onstage, nor posed in the buff for your spending money--and those of the opposite sex didn't hang around your dormitory in casual undress. God knows what might have happened if they did. Nowadays, however, the undergrads do all the above, and more. They don't hesitate to remove their garments in order to splash about in a pool, absorb a little sunlight or dramatize a political point--and it's mostly in a spirit of naturalness, unaccompanied by giggling or grabbing. Sex itself isn't that much freer than it used to be, at least not for everybody; but it's easier to get the where and how of it together, and there's little need to debate the why. Today's students are afflicted by no dichotomy of the flesh and spirit. The human body, in disrepute for too long (and still viewed with anxiety by some), has made a joyous debut on campus; the human image can only prosper.
I was sitting in my office at Existentialist Pictures near Sunset and Gower. The office adjoins the producer's and is connected by an anteroom. It's used by the writers. Nice. Rug is blah color to hide blood from script altercations (or alterations) and there is a well-found bar to anesthetize your brain before reading the latest noodlings on your script by the new-breed producer, who pitches in to help with the writing. Hip producers are real cool. They co-opt the best of both worlds, sporting long hair and flowered bells and traveling with manicurists in arriviste automobiles they tip a dollar. The phone rang and the voice said it was Maurice. "Maurice?" I asked.
The Irish like it black, Czechs blond and Berliners white, with a dash of raspberry syrup. The British drink it warm, Americans cold enough to numb the palate. Expectant German mothers take it for nourishment, Nigerian males drink it to increase their virility and Malaysians wash their babies in it to protect them from disease. Scandinavians restrict its sale as an intoxicant, while neighboring Russians promote it as an antidote to drunkenness. It goes by many names--beer, ale, stout, piwo, fairy godmother and devil's brew--but whatever you call it, next to water, it is the most popular beverage on earth.
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex...You'll Find in My New Movie--Plus a Couple of Thing
What you'll find on these pages are some stills from my new movie, Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex ... but Were Afraid to Ask. I had a choice of filming this or the Old Testament and chose the former because it made more sense. There are probably a lot of people who will think Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex ... is a dirty movie, and it's those people I'm counting on. The film went into overtime, the delay being caused by the inability of the leading man to achieve an erection that was visible on film. There is no nudity in the movie, though I did remove all my clothes for a scene that was cut because the sight of my body caused the censors to rate the movie G. The picture expresses my feelings about sex: that it is good in moderation and should be confined to one's lifetime. I have tried to remain faithful to the book, which is more than I did with my wife, and have attempted to delineate for all time the various perversions, along with tips on what to wear. I have also tried to deal with sex in a moral, healthy way, although for this I had to rely on hearsay. I would like to express my gratitude to the producers for showing me what cunnilingus is, to all the people at the artificial-insemination lab for the use of their sperm and to the special-effects department, which enabled me to have intercourse in take after take, due to a cable from my groin to the rear of the sound stage.
In the end, one is reduced to the pop wisdom about her--she does finally derive from that ancient dream of doomed plantation chivalry before the tragic gray crusade: a lost Arthurian age of heroic hoof-hammering romance and sylphic women, their chaste pale faces haloed by the murmurous glow of candelabra on midsummer evenings reeling with jasmine. Never mind those occasional sweet and furious midnight skirmishings with cousins out in the muscadine arbors. It was all a cotton-field Camelot that never existed so palpably and luminously and definitely as in the long perpetuation of a swooning nostalgia for it after its vague rude semblance was immolated by the Civil War. But she is one part of the memory that has actively survived, simply translating herself intact and oblivious on into the new tin-foil-bright cities of the South's brisk neo-Babbittry with their Tupperware-facade shopping centers, their quiet expensive suburbs where VWs and station wagons twinkle drowsily through the mornings under myriad bursts of dogwood like soft and weightless puffs of (continued on page 214)ladies of the magnolias(continued from page 121) musketry, their golf courses now mowed and groomed over the sites of savage Civil War collisions that are only discreetly denoted by historical markers set off in the pines along the fairways.
The allure of tall girls has often been attributed to the notion that "there's a lot to love." Not surprisingly, Susan Miller, who stands an imposing 6'1", has heard that before. "But," she says, "most of the time I get people who just come up to me on the street and say, 'How tall are you, anyway?' " Actually, says our 24-year-old Playmate, her height has had varied effects on her psyche: "I was already over six feet when I was 13. That really messed me up, because all the boys thought I was some kind of monster. It freaked me for a long time to be teased and called things like Ichabod Crane." But Susan got a taste of revenge when she was approached by a modeling agent while sunning on the beach. "I couldn't believe it. This guy just came up to me and asked me to model. That's the oldest come-on in the world, but it turned out that he was for real." So, for the next six years, Susan earned up to $60 an hour as an haute couture mannequin. In 1965, she entered the Miss Universe Contest and placed runner-up in the New York State finals. About then, she recalls, "I just got fed up with the pace. It was nice to be in demand as a model, but I had no free time. So I just quit and found a job as a kind of girl Friday for a plastics company." She was eventually promoted to head the administrative division of the firm, but that responsibility again placed demands on her time. After six months at her new job, she left for the West Coast to settle in Los Angeles. She's currently not working at all and is in no hurry to return to the ranks of the employed. "For now, I get by just fine on unemployment money. But I suppose I'll get tired of free-loading after a while. When I do look for work again, I'm thinking about a career as a photo stylist. I know about that field from watching them work when I was modeling. They set up fashion shootings, locate the right props and help the photographer compose his picture. That might be fun. But whatever happens, I'm just glad to be in California. There are so many kooks out here that being especially tall is nothing. So I blend in. And that's fine, because I'm not so self-conscious now. I like feeling anonymous." Sorry about that, Susan.
"In developing aviation, in making it a form of commerce, in replacing the wild freedom of danger with the civilized bonds of safety, must we give up this miracle of the air? Will men fly through the sky in the future without seeing what I have seen, without feeling what I have felt? Is that true of all things we call human progress--do the gods retire as commerce and science advance?"
The Venerable Art of tattooing has, over the history of fashion, been either fanatically in or unspeakably out. Skin decor was part of the religious rites of the Chinese, Mayans, Egyptians and other ancient cultures; the Hebrew prophets of the Old Testament, on the other hand, solemnly inveighed against it. Captain Cook brought "tatu" styles to the West from Polynesia in the 18th Century, and within 100 years everybody in Europe, from society belles to the Prince of Wales, was undergoing the needle. There followed another cycle of obloquy; grandma believed that only carnival performers and drunken sailors got tattooed. Today, the tattoo parlor is moving back uptown and pretty girls are adding epidermal embellishments. Some, not fully committed to the idea of virtually indelible adornment, choose to explore the body-paint or decal route. Herewith, a well-rounded sampling.
If you pick 20 adults at random, the odds are that 15 of them drink moderately, two are problem drinkers and one is a desperate alcoholic. Two who use alcohol are also using marijuana, a couple are taking tranquilizers on doctors' orders and one or two have been popping barbiturates to relieve insomnia and are perilously close to addiction. Three or four have taken amphetamines to stay awake or to lose weight and nearly all of them drink caffeine, another stimulant. Ten or 12 of this group of 20 continue to smoke tobacco even after the medical hazards of that habit have been amply documented. One has probably taken acid or mescaline. The children of some have sniffed glue or carbon tet for kicks (thereby risking brain and liver damage), more smoke pot and some have had an LSD trip. The drug culture, as the newspapers call it, doesn't just belong to the kids; everyone's in it together.
If tomorrow, by some miracle, every source of illegally grown or manufactured drug were cut off, the U. S. would scarcely feel any withdrawal symptoms, nor would the current drug-abuse epidemic be ended. The sad truth is that our most sophisticated and profitable pushers are the nation's largest pharmaceutical corporations. Somehow, these companies remain almost unnoticed in the intense and well-publicized debate about the causes of the drug epidemic. Each year, the legal drug industry unconcernedly devotes hundreds of millions of dollars to producing a supply of psychotropic drugs--including barbiturates, tranquilizers and amphetamines--in gross excess of any conceivable legitimate medical need. These "mind" drugs are easily available to practically anyone. The same companies go a step further by creating a demand for their products with a slick advertising campaign seemingly designed to persuade every American that it's medically and socially acceptable to shield himself chemically against all the ordinary emotional hazards of life. I see little chance of making significant progress in fighting such propaganda until we recognize these corporate drug pushers as its source and translate that recognition into mass public pressure against them.
Recently I spent an hour and a half giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a Vietnam vet who'd dropped what had been sold to him as a "four-way tab of mescaline." Bear in mind that it's impossible to overdose on mescaline--the body metabolizes however much boiled-down peyote juice it can and upchucks the rest. But my clinically dead young friend hadn't taken real mescaline; it's too expensive to be available on the illicit market. He'd been sold acid laced with impurities--probably toxic by-products of the drug's synthesis, thrown back in to stretch the batch, and possibly strychnine, otherwise known as rat poison.
"Oh, Yeah," he says, laughing at the memory, pointing at the thin blue line of a vein in his leg, "I lost that one in Miami in Sixty-eight. Needle went right through it and fried it like a piece of beefsteak." He has less subtle trophies: milk-white rippled scars above both eyes from bones crushed and badly healed; silver-dollar-sized brands on both arms and his back; a flaring tattooed eagle arched huge on each skinny forearm, all-American wings hiding the beaded string of knots in the main veins; a lock and chain tattooed on one wrist. And then the prize: deep, red-healed scars from knives, many of them, on his stomach and abdomen, hieroglyph message from 17, maybe 18 operations--he doesn't remember the number exactly.
The social critics of football found their consummate spokesman this year when Eugene Bianchi, a professor of religion at Emory University in Atlanta, published a treatise titled "Pigskin Piety" in the February 21, 1972, issue of Christianity and Crisis, a highly respected journal of theology that we have read since 1961, when it published an article chronicling the systematic dehumanization of the American male by Playboy. Judging by Professor Bianchi's comments, football has now displaced Playboy as the major threat to human values. He begins his article with scholarly dispassion:
The Script called for an actress who could simultaneously convey innocence and sensuality while wearing unflattering 1952 Army fatigues, a moral Midwestern virgin capable of tantalizing an entire company of GIs fighting the Korean War. More than 100 eager ingénues appeared for the auditions: Actors Studio graduates, summer-stock neophytes, hopefuls from Council Bluffs recently arrived in California by Greyhound and a galaxy of fluff-headed starlets normally seen dancing the funky chicken at local discothèques.
If you are in a great family, and my lady's woman, my lord may probably like you, although you are not half so handsome as his own lady. In this case, take care to get as much out of him as you can; and never allow him the smallest liberty, not the squeezing of your hand, unless he puts a guinea into it; so by degrees, make him pay accordingly for every new attempt, doubling upon him in proportion to the concessions you allow, and always struggling, and threatening to cry out, or tell your lady, although you receive his money; five guineas for handling your breast is a cheap pennyworth, although you seem to resist with all your might; but never allow him the last favour under 100 guineas, or a settlement of 20 pounds a year for life.
Ever since television began running old movies, which is ever since television, people have been coining up with Late Show trivia games--until the games themselves have become trivial. Anyone with a minimally functional memory remembers that Dooley Wilson played you know what in Casablanca and that William Powell and Myrna Loy were the original Nick and Nora Charles. The games, like the movies, suffer from over-exposure. There are over 17,300 movies currently available to television viewers, but the collective dialog in most of them is uniquely sparse. Most Late Show statements produce automatic Late Show responses, and therein lies the true test of the TV-movie connoisseur. He can spot the proper cliché in a crowd. He not only knows that the sentiment "Those drums, that monotonous rhythm--it's driving me crazy" is dialog from King Solomon's Mines, Mogambo and half a dozen other white-hunter jungle movies; he also knows just what phrase triggers the crazed coward to make that admission.
In The Past, it was possible for us to offer counsel on collegiate wardrobe needs with a fair degree of regional acumen. Eastern undergrads were traditionally the most fashion-conscious, with the South coming in a close second. Midwesterners, predictably, were middle of the road, neither too relaxed nor too dressy. Southwesterners were divided into two camps--the let's-go-to-blazers crowd and the wild bunch, who (text concluded on page 188)Back to Campus(continued from page 169) wouldn't be caught dead in anything but boots and Levis; while the West Coast was out the window, with students in suits and bathing suits seated side by side. Today, however, the college fashion scene is so diverse that regional differences have all but disappeared. Still, there are important style trends manifesting themselves nationwide.
"A disproportionate number of the poor and socially unacceptable get executed," says Anthony Amsterdam, 36-year-old professor of criminal law at Stanford and a leading strategist in the fight to abolish the death penalty. Amsterdam was awakened to this tragic form of racial and economic injustice ten years ago while serving as attorney for the NAACP Legal Defense Fund, representing Southern blacks charged with serious crimes. Through the Sixties, his involvement intensified, culminating last January in two murder cases argued before the U. S. Supreme Court. In ruling on one of these cases late last June, the Court declared the death penalty unconstitutional as cruel and unusual punishment, and the lives of 600 death-row prisoners were spared. Amsterdam had earlier won a case affirming the unconstitutionality of execution in California. More than a one-issue civil rightist, he is currently fighting several freedom-of-the-press and school-desegregation cases, was the lawyer to win bail for the now-acquitted Angela Davis and helped get Bobby Seale's contempt-of-court conviction reversed. Much of Amsterdam's success is due to his understanding of what happens on the other side of the bench--a knowledge gained from his job as law clerk to the late Justice Felix Frankfurter after being graduated summa cum laude from the law school of the University of Pennsylvania (he's a Philadelphia native). Working for Frankfurter, he was able to observe lawyers' techniques, from which he developed his own commanding courtroom style, which includes a masterful use of language and a retentive memory for obscure judicial references. At Stanford, Amsterdam teaches his method with a video-tape machine that films students' performances. All this leaves him free time for little more than an occasional tennis match, but that's his own choice. "I have a refined sense of injustice. I get mad about people being mistreated." And since Amsterdam accepts no legal fees, he gets but one reward: satisfaction in righting wrongs.
Every day the poor of Detroit's decaying east side swarm by the hundreds to a huge medieval-fortresslike building on Gratiot Street. Some come for medical treatment, some for jobs, others for the 35-cent meals dished out daily--almost all for a generous helping of soul from the Reverend Mother Charleszetta Waddles, founder of the Perpetual Mission for Saving Souls of All Nations. An ordained Pentecostal minister, 59-year-old Mother Waddles, as she's affectionately called by her flock, started her mission 15 years ago to provide "service to the total man." According to her, "A church should take care of people's spiritual and physical needs. And that's what we try to do here." Besides offering food, clothing and shelter, Mother and her all-volunteer staff also handle drug, immigration and financial cases that others won't touch; in fact, the U. S. Senate Committee on Hunger recently was shocked to learn that most social agencies in Detroit refer dire emergencies to her. But, as an ex-- welfare mother, she has a special understanding of indigents' troubles. A native of St. Louis, she was forced to quit school at 12 and go to work. By 19, she'd been married and widowed. After a second marriage, she was left alone in Detroit at 33 with eight mouths to feed on very slim welfare checks. She made it, though, remarried--and turned around to help others. "I think the hard knocks have been a kind of blessing. Everything you go through gives you a chance to do good." As an old hand at living hand to mouth, she seldom worries about where the money will come from. Mother's mission receives no Government or institutional funding; contributions are almost entirely from individuals--a surprise $30,000 loan from a businessman, a dime taped to a postcard. "Somehow it appears right when it's needed," she says. "There've been rough times, but God hasn't let me down yet. I just think that maybe He had me in mind for this work. As He said, 'I'll take the foolish and confound the wise.' I always tell folks that I must be foolish."
Good and bad, from Charlie Christian to Duane Eddy, America has produced more than her share of guitar pickers. But classical ones? No way, you say; that's a European thing. Well, we have news, if you haven't already heard: There's no more exciting classical guitarist today than the slim, serious 24-year-old pictured above. It was at the age of 11, in his native Los Angeles, that Christopher Parkening picked up the guitar; a year of studying with Celedonio and Pepe Romero, a father-son teaching team, prepared him for his first recital; two intensive work years later, an audition for the Young Musicians Foundation got him a gig as soloist for its 1962--1963 concert season. It also led to a friendship with composer Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco, with whose Concerto in D Parkening made his formal concert debut. After performing with a number of California orchestras, Chris entered a master class with Andrés Segovia, at Berkeley. Further studies with Segovia led to an invitation to judge a guitar competition in Spain; though not officially entered, Parkening played (at Segovia's request) and was awarded first-place honors. In the meantime, he'd signed with Columbia Artists for his initial concert tour and begun teaching at USC; a couple of months later, Angel would release his first two albums. Currently, Parkening is gassing both critics and audiences with his crystal-clear recordings and his seemingly effortless concert performances, in which he and his instrument collaborate closely to bring out the best of everything from Satie to Bach. Parkening thinks the guitar is "the answer to the saving of classical music. One of the great attractions it has for my generation is that it can be played alone and quietly, and so it has become a private and personal means of expression. Since the kids think of it as their symbol, they respond to the pure beauty of classical music as played on the classical guitar." If Parkening really feels it's the guitar, and not Parkening, that fills the concert halls, then we've got news for him, too.